


These Are the Last Words I Speak to You

by AKAuthor



Series: Mine [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Sad, Scars, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, apologies Daryl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKAuthor/pseuds/AKAuthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU. Your soul mate's last words are written on your skin, and Rick always thought his words would belong to Lori, but the words are not written in Lori's handwriting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are the Last Words I Speak to You

**Author's Note:**

> Abuse triggers, Major Character Death.  
> I am weirdly pleased at writing this, and I feel as though I have joined the ranks of the writers who enjoy ripping the heartstrings of readers and punting their feelings to the moon. I am rather sorry about this.

Growing up knowing that his soul mate existed just as he had always excited Rick. He dreamt and dreamt of those words blossoming over his skin intimately, morbid beauty etching into the pores. The last words his soul mate would ever speak would ink themselves into his flesh. There were people who never found their soul mates. Because the only clue was their last words, many had no idea of what they had until they lost it. Rick’s parents were happily married, his mother had a fervent scrawl down her shoulder “ _I missed you_.” And Rick’s father had an elegant script on his thigh “ _Please, God, no!_ ” The two of them were very much in love and happy together, their handwriting on each other’s bodies under their fingertips.

Rick himself was in his third year of high school, and somewhat infatuated with his girlfriend, the doe eyed Lori Bucklan. The two of them were voted cutest couple last year, they were affectionate, going steady, and everyone was certain they were soul mates. They balanced one another perfectly, and a white picket fence could be seen in the future for the love birds. Rick waited and waited for Lori’s swirly font to fade into his wrist, or ink on his ankle, hell, and some days he caught himself scratching her name into his hand and admiring it. There was nothing more he wanted than to see Lori and him sealed by fate. The age of the marks varied greatly, some had words inscribed at the age of four, others were in their thirties before even a letter seeped into their skin. Most had assumed that Lori and Rick were it because of the hesitancy of the marks, but assured them that they would be together forever.

 

Rick had just stepped into the bathroom, sweaty from the Georgia heat and working. His small job as a waiter at a little strip mall café paid quite well, and Rick was working extra time to save up enough money for a nice two year anniversary present for Lori. He turned on the shower, lukewarm water flicking at him, and filling the room with steam that billowed around the small room and fogged the edges of the mirror. Pulling the hem of his shirt up and over his head, Rick froze. Bone white against his tanned skin, haphazard, child-like words scarred his skin. They were raised and stretched over like a scar, silky to the touch, and gently pressed on to the flesh at his pelvic crest, right where the bone softly jutted out as the plains of his stomach flattened inwards. “ _Please don’t hurt me, Pa! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me! Daddy no!_ ”

Rick’s soul mate was going to die a _child_.

He's never going to find him.

Kiss him.

Love him.

 

Rick collapsed against the toilet, his back pressed against the porcelain as he clutched at his hair desperately. A hole was tearing at his chest, painfully ripping and threatening to engulf him whole. Tears burned behind his eyes, his mouth was open in a silent scream, Rick’s throat convulsing as he sobbed.

Five years and two months later, a doctor stands over a silver table, the young child brought in by his elder brother pale in death. The little five-year-old had heaved for breath, cuts, burns, and scars marring his tanned skin. As the boys breaths stuttered and stopped his brother angrily sobbed and clutched at the little boy’s hand. The doctor knew abuse, and ran a soft hand over the boys closed blue eyes. They'd been a glorious shade of dusky sky, tainted by pain and horror.

 _He’d been so brave_.

Pulling the sheet down, scalpel aloft, they paused at the words written in a large, clear, skinny hand, sloping and jagged. They rested on the boys left collarbone, drifting along it, like a poem.

“ _I wish I knew you to love you_ ”.


End file.
